


Per Aspera Ad Inferi

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (but only apparent underage), (eventually) - Freeform, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyjuice Potion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Time Skips, Underage Sex, Wet Dream, harry potter's poorly-timed sexual awakening, sex by proxy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Barty Crouch Jr. did not receive the Dementor's Kiss on that fateful June night; instead, he escaped to rejoin Lord Voldemort.Meanwhile, Harry Potter has some very disturbing dreams.





	1. Dreams and Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so...yeah. i really have no excuse for this. it's pure filth. i blame red and stuffle and cy and hei and everyone else who encouraged me, the dirty enablers. 
> 
> but i also: i thank them for workshopping this first chapter in the writing server, which was sorta like getting a beta gangbang and was amazing, 10/10 would do again. any mistakes are all my own. 
> 
> (the title of this fic is from a song of the same name by Ghost because i'm that level of Extra™ and makes no actual sense in latin lmao)

A cloaked figure appeared out of thin air just outside of the graveyard at Little Hangleton. They stalked across flattened grass—like it had been recently trampled over by many feet. The gravestones were chipped and scorched, and the air was charged as if a lightning storm were imminent, despite the clear night sky.

A warm, pleasant June evening. Barty Crouch Jr, wearing his own face once more, pulled the hood on his cloak back and breathed deeply in the air of freedom. He had managed to escape before Fudge could bring in the dementors. He had accomplished what he’d set out to do. His Lord was back. Potter may have gotten away this time, but that was no matter.

He tucked a few strands of coal-black hair into his cloak, and smiled a secret smile.

It was time to see the Dark Lord.

  
  


***

 

Harry lay on a bed in the hospital wing, anxious, sore, and above all, exhausted. Dumbledore had just left the room and ushered out Sirius, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Alone with his thoughts was the last place he wanted to be, currently. He looked over to his bedside table. A goblet with a strong sleeping draught sat upon it, left by Madam Pomfrey, in the event he should need it. His nerves were still shot from the duel in the graveyard.

His mind buzzed, a welter of unconnected images and thoughts and feelings. Cedric’s unseeing gaze, his glassy eyes reflecting the stars. The feeling of ropes holding him fast to a cold gravestone. Peter Pettigrew slicing the crook of his arm with a knife.

Professor Moody’s craggy visage melting away to reveal the face of a man who was supposed to be dead.

The Death Eaters, gathered around, laughing as Voldemort brandished his wand. _“Bow to death, Harry.”_

Voldemort, rising from the cauldron, a skeletal nightmare made flesh.

_“I can touch you now.”_

Harry shook his head and reached blindly for the goblet, downing it in one gulp.

He settled back against the soft pillows and didn’t so much fall asleep as lose consciousness. With oblivion came an overwhelming sense of relief.

 

***

 

Harry was flying. Soaring through the night sky without the aid of a broom. Beneath him, the world unrolled in a glittering profusion of lights against a dark backdrop, as if all the stars had come unstuck from the firmament and made new homes on earth.

Something was tugging him on; an invisible rope pulling him towards some unknown destination. Harry had the vague idea that he should fight it, but couldn’t find the will to do so.

Over the ground he flew, not even treetops rustling in his wake, until at last he came upon a small dale which housed an even smaller village. There was something familiar about it, like a place he’d visited once in a dream. There was a single pulse in his scar. It wasn’t painful this time, only...tingly.

All at once, he was approaching a great house at the end of the valley. Faster than thought, he was swept through the ivy-grown wrought-iron fence and slipped in between the cracks in the stone walls of the manor as if he were no more than a ghost.

That thought should’ve been alarming, yet Harry felt only a mild curiosity.

The inside was horribly familiar—he’d seen these corridors before. Almost a year ago, when he’d woken up from the pain in his scar.

All at once, he knew where he was. And with mounting horror, he knew who he was about to see.

Now, he fought against the pull. The more he struggled, the faster it seemed to draw him on, until at last, he was pulled into a room. The fire made shadows dance on the wall like demons portrayed in muggle renditions of witches’ gatherings.

There were two people in the room. Voldemort, pale and horrible, cloaked in shadow, was sitting upon a chair before the fire, like a king on his throne.

The other person in the room knelt before him, their head bowed, messy black hair obscuring their face.

Harry had a sinking feeling, looking at that bowed form. Small, too small to be a proper Death Eater.

Voldemort reached out a skeletal hand and threaded thin fingers through unruly hair.

And then, with a grip that even from Harry’s distance looked cruel, he yanked the other person’s face up.

It was...

Harry himself.

Harry’s insubstantial form shook its nonexistent head. That wasn’t possible.

And yet, it was. The face that stared back at him in the mirror every day was tilted up towards Voldemort, wearing an expression that Harry was sure he’d never worn looking at anyone, except maybe a particularly good treacle tart. Certainly not ever at Voldemort.

Shockingly green eyes—unfettered by the usual round glasses—clearly visible even from where spirit-Harry watched from the door, an unwilling voyeur.

Harry stared, the bile rising in his throat, as Voldemort’s spidery-thin fingers trailed down Not-Harry’s cheek (for there was no way…it couldn’t possibly be…) in a horrible mockery of a caress.

What was worse—and made spirit-Harry truly ill—was the look of utter rapture on Not-Harry’s face at Voldemort’s touch. Not-Harry leaned into his hand, his raspy breathing audible even over the crackle of fire.

“Master,” Not-Harry pleaded— _whined_ —nuzzling into Voldemort’s hand, like a touch-starved pet. “Please.”

There was no hesitation on Voldemort’s part. He shifted on the chair, spreading his knees apart.

“You may,” Voldemort said, stroking the side of Not-Harry’s face.

Not-Harry shuffled forward on his knees, licking his lips. He gazed up at Voldemort in a way that could only be described as adoring, obsessive.

Slowly, reverently, he slid his hand along the fabric covering Voldemort’s thigh, close enough that he was sitting in the vee of Voldemort’s legs.

Harry had a very bad feeling about where this was heading.

He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t even turn away. He was frozen to the spot in horror as his doppelganger brought his face down to nuzzle between Voldemort’s legs.

Voldemort let out a hiss of pleasure as Not-Harry mouthed at the growing bulge, visible even from a distance, tenting the front of Voldemort’s robes.

Not-Harry’s hand parted the black fabric before him, and Harry got an unfortunate eye-full of Voldemort’s hard cock.

Feelings he didn’t dare name coiled in his belly. Disgust and shame warred within him at the apparent sight of himself kneeling in front of Voldemort and lapping at the head of his cock.

“You know what I like, Harry,” Voldemort said, stroking messy black hair once more.

With no hesitation at all, Not-Harry swallowed Voldemort down to the hilt, not even gagging.

“Ohhhh, _Harry_ ,” Voldemort hissed. It took Harry a moment to recognize it as Parseltongue, so shocked was he by the tableau before him.

He wanted to vomit, he wanted to hide, he wanted…

A small, hidden, shameful part of him wanted to wank.

After all, that’s what Not-Harry was doing, his arm working furiously between his legs as his head bobbed in Voldemort’s lap.

It seemed to take a long while. Horrid wet sucking sounds competed with the crackle of fire and Voldemort’s harsh breathing.

Finally, Voldemort rolled his hips one last time, thrusting up into Not-Harry’s mouth, and let out a long groan. He collapsed back as Not-Harry choked and coughed, and finally pulled his head up, licking at the viscous white fluid on his lips.

That was all Harry had time to see before the scene dissolved in front of him like fog before the morning sun.

 

***

 

Back in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, Harry sat up, bent over the side of the bed, and vomited all over the floor. He panted for a moment, resting his head against the edge of the bedside table, letting the cool wood ground him.

His throat was sore, raw, from vomiting or as a sympathetic response to seeing…

The bile burned in his throat and he vomited again at the memory. There was nothing at all in his stomach, aside from the potion-laced pumpkin juice he’d had. With a sick relief, he noted that there wasn’t anything...white...in the puddle on the floor.

He flopped back onto the pillows, trembling.

Only then, did he become aware of the tension between his legs as his traitorous cock strained against the front of his pajamas.

He stared down at his own body in horror. No...he put his hands over his too-hot face and fought back the urge to cry.

From the other end of the room, Harry could hear a door opening. He sent a panicked glance towards the sound. Madam Pomfrey bustled in, bringing a tray with a smoking potion bottle set upon it.

Harry quickly drew his legs up, so his bent knees would conceal his shame.

“Oh dear, dear, dear,” the matronly witch tutted. “That sleeping draught must not have sat well with you at all, poor dear.”

Harry could only shake his head.

Madam Pomfrey cleaned up the mess on the floor with a flick of her wand.

“Here now, this should settle your poor belly,” Madam Pomfrey said, setting the tray with its gently-smoking bottle on the bedside table.

“It’s not going to put me to sleep again, is it?” Harry asked, panic rising within him at the thought.

“Oh no, it’s just a little something that will keep you from being sick all over again,” she said. “My own recipe,” she added with a wink.

Harry smiled weakly, and took the potion.

He drank it down in one long pull. It tasted faintly of peppermint and lavender, sharply medicinal, but not unpleasant. Instantly, the roiling in his stomach stilled.

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“Not at all, not at all! It’s my job, you know. Now get some rest, dear.”

Harry nodded. He was not going to get any more rest tonight.

  
  


***

 

The next morning, after having not slept a wink, Harry resolved to put the dream—for that was all it was, a dream—behind him. The end-of-term feast was tonight, and while eating was the last thing Harry felt like doing at the moment, he knew he’d have to make an appearance.

He also knew that he needed to talk to Dumbledore, that the...the _dreams_ were becoming more vivid.

He was remembering them when he really, really didn’t want to.

Though he was not, absolutely _not,_ going to tell Dumbledore about the content of that particular dream.

He wished he could forget it. He didn’t want to know what sounds Voldemort made when he came. But the memory was, unfortunately, as vivid as ever. More so than the memories of his other dreams.

He kept asking for Dumbledore, only to be told that he was busy.

 

***

 

The end-of-term feast came at last, and Harry was deemed fit enough to join his classmates.

The feast was somber in the wake of Cedric’s death. Everywhere Harry went, he could feel eyes upon him. Some pitying, some accusing. All unwelcome.

Cho tried to catch his eye, but Harry found he couldn’t even face her. Cedric’s lifeless face swam before his eyes every time he looked at her.

Guilt overcame him, and he found that any attraction he’d had for her was now gone. He couldn’t imagine doing normal things normal teenagers did—holding hands, going on dates.

 _Harry, on his knees in front of the Dark Lord, worshiping him with his mouth_.

That thought, intrusive and unwelcome, froze the blood in his veins. His hands trembled, and he dropped his fork. It landed on his plate with a loud clatter.

The food on his tongue tasted wrong. Too bitter, too salty, the texture all thick and sticky. He valiantly fought down the urge to gag.

Hermione noticed immediately, of course.

“Harry, are you alright?” she asked in an undertone.

Harry nodded, groping around for a napkin and trying to spit his mouthful into it without drawing too much attention to himself. The wad of food in the napkin was only chewed-up food, nothing more. Harry hated how relieved he was by that. Of course it was.

“Must’ve bit into a clove,” Harry said.

Hermione gave him a dubious look, but went back to her own food.

Harry, however, had quite lost his appetite. He pushed his plate away and tried to calm his racing heart.

“Are ‘oo gonna eat ‘at?” Ron asked around a mouthful of his own dinner, pointing at Harry’s plate.

That earned him a smack on the arm from Hermione and a hissed “Don’t talk with your mouth full! Honestly, Ron!”

“It’s all yours, mate,” Harry told him.

He sat back and basked in the normalcy of the scene. If he tried really hard, he could almost imagine this was a regular end-of-year feast.

But there was a vacancy at the Hufflepuff table which stood out like a sore thumb, and Harry couldn’t ignore it, either. Also, he couldn’t ignore the dark looks some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were giving him.

And the Slytherins…they seemed almost unusually cheerful. Certainly more than the occasion warranted.

Draco Malfoy caught his eye and smiled. It was a smug, horrid expression, and Harry wanted nothing more than to hex it off his stupid pointy face.

 _Lucius Malfoy’s cold grey eyes glittering with mirth behind his Death Eater mask, watching with glee as Voldemort tortured Harry with the_ Cruciatus Curse _._

Harry stood abruptly. “I’m going back to the Common Room.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Harry?” Hermione asked in concern.

“I’m fine, Hermione, really,” Harry lied.

Hermione did not look convinced, but neither did she question him again.

Harry made his way up to Gryffindor Tower alone, and desperately wishing he could find some way to Obliviate himself.

 

***

 

It was the last night in Hogwarts before he had to return to the Dursleys’ for the summer. Harry lay awake in his four-poster, the curtains drawn closed, blocking out the rest of the dorm.

He was tired—exhausted, really. All the aches and pains from the duel in the graveyard and the injuries he’d gotten in the maze had been healed by Madam Pomfrey. His physical hurts were taken care of. The mental and emotional ones, however, were another story entirely.

The news that Barty Crouch Jr had escaped hit hard. Harry remembered the last time one of Voldemort’s servants escaped. Professor Trelawney had even made a prophecy about it.

Minister Fudge had been there, with a dementor. Harry wasn’t sure of the details, but Crouch had escaped the locked room he was in.

Harry shuddered. The thought that one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters had been so close to him, even helping him during the Tournament, unsettled him to his very core. He remembered several times where Moody had patted him on the shoulder, or ruffled his hair. Harry, completely unaware at the time of how close he was to one of Voldemort’s most devout servants, had to repress a shiver.

He rolled over onto his back. The fabric of the canopy held no answers. It only reminded him that really, he did need to sleep.

He just...really, _really_ didn’t want to.

Whatever that horrible dream was, he did not want to revisit it. At all. Ever.

 _It was a bad reaction to the potion, that’s all,_ he tried to rationalize. But he knew, deep down, that wasn’t it.

It had to do with the connection he had with Voldemort, he was sure of it. His stomach turned at the thought.

He didn’t want to sleep because he was afraid of what dreams might come.

“I’m being an idiot,” Harry whispered to himself, firmly.

And with that, he closed his eyes with resolve and willed himself to fall asleep.

He must’ve been even more tired than he thought, because sleep came upon him almost immediately.

 

***

 

There was a silver light dancing through the woods. Harry followed, drawn by its unearthly beauty. It was some sort of four-legged creature—a unicorn? Maybe a deer?

Prongs?

Harry sped up, walking as fast as he could on bare feet. His footsteps were muffled by the thick dirt of the forest floor.

He had to catch it. If he could catch it, it would have to answer his questions.

He followed the light, but it stayed maddingly out of reach. The faster Harry tried to catch up, the further away the light seemed to get, until it was nothing but a pinprick of brightness in the dark forest, and presently, it vanished entirely.

The woods were cold. Harry wrapped his arms around himself to preserve warmth. He couldn’t feel his toes.

He did the only thing he could do, and kept walking.

Another light, well off the path, flickered to life, and Harry’s eyes were drawn to it.

This one wasn’t silver, but gold. It fluttered teasingly between the trees. Harry left the path and followed it.

It darted here and there, like a Snitch. Harry chased it. This time he was able to get closer until he was almost upon it. He reached out, about to snatch it…only for his hand to close on empty air.

The light still hung in front of him, but now he could see that rather than being close, it was actually far. A flickering firelight. Harry went towards it. It didn’t move, this time. He was able to get closer.

The forest around him seemed to change as he walked. The trees became straighter and more rigid. The ground evened out and grew harder and smoother beneath his feet.

By the time he reached the fire, the ground had resolved into a smooth, polished wood floor. The moss had turned into a lush green rug, and the trees had joined together to form walls.

The room looked sickeningly familiar. With a sinking stomach, Harry recognized the fireplace in the room at the abandoned Riddle house.

_Oh no. Oh hell no…_

“Oh yes, Harry.”

That voice. That high, cold cruel voice.

A lead weight settled into the pit of his stomach.

He turned around.

And saw himself shackled to the far wall.

Voldemort stepped out of the shadows, his robes flowing freely around him.

He moved close to the Harry chained to the wall. Too close.

He pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robe and jabbed it directly into the flesh beneath the other Harry’s chin.

Voldemort leaned close and whispered in the other Harry’s ear. “ _Crucio_.”

Not-Harry writhed in agony, his screams wrenched from his throat as Voldemort held the wand under his chin.

Harry, the real Harry, was moving before he could even think. He went to pull out his wand only to find it wasn’t there.

Not-Harry’s screams changed pitch; Voldemort dragged his wand down the other boy’s throat, stopping directly over his heart.

He stopped, pulling the wand away. Not-Harry sagged in relief.

“Did you know, Harry, that the Cruciatus Curse can be directed?” Voldemort said, conversationally.

He traced the yew wand along Not-Harry’s chest, almost sensually. He stopped, the tip of the wand pressing just below Not-Harry’s ribcage.

Not-Harry whimpered.

Voldemort leaned even further into Not-Harry’s space and murmured, “ _Crucio_.”

Harry couldn’t take this anymore. Wand or no wand, he lunged forward and…went right through them.

Harry stumbled, surprised. He’d phased through them like Nearly-Headless Nick did Hogwarts’ walls.

Not-Harry screamed again, and Voldemort was talking calmly over his screams, as if he were discussing the weather.

“Applying the Cruciatus to the lungs produces some interesting results, wouldn’t you say, Harry?”

Voldemort paused, taking the curse off momentarily. “You really should answer me, Harry,” he admonished.

The other Harry’s chest heaved as he gasped for air. “Yes,” he panted. “Very...interesting...my Lord.”

Voldemort smiled a sharp, shark-like smile at that.

Harry couldn’t look away, stuck fast to the ground in horror.

“Now, when Cruciatus is applied directly to the liver,” Voldemort said, pressing his wand into Not-Harry’s side. “The pain is sharper.”

Not-Harry screamed again, his voice raw, as Voldemort wordlessly cursed him.

He couldn’t have been under the curse for longer than a few seconds, but to Harry, who was watching helplessly from the sidelines, it felt like an eternity.

Finally, Voldemort removed his wand.

“Please…Please no more...I beg you…” Not-Harry croaked, his voice barely audible.

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort whispered. There was a quality to his voice that made Harry’s stomach turn. “You have no idea how beautiful you are when you scream.”

Then Voldemort looked thoughtful, caressing his wand over the other Harry’s stomach and down, down.

And there, Harry saw, with disgust, Not-Harry was hard, his cock tenting the front of his robes.

Voldemort noticed it too, tracing the tip of his wand over the tell-tale bulge.

“Why, I think you might actually be enjoying this, Harry.”

Not-Harry whimpered again.

The torture had been hard to watch but this, this was worse. Harry couldn’t move, it was as if he’d been put in a full-body bind.

“Please… Mercy…”

Voldemort let out a shuddering breath. He stowed his wand in his robes.

“Oh, _Harry,_ your screams are beautiful, but they pale in comparison to your begging.”

Voldemort waved his hand and the chains holding the other Harry vanished. He collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily.

Voldemort’s fingers found their way underneath his chin and tilted his head up.

“Perhaps you should show me some gratitude? I was merciful, after all.”

“Anything, anything, my Lord,” Not-Harry panted.

Voldemort’s smile was a horrible, predatory thing. He roughly grasped Not-Harry’s hair and yanked him up.

“Suck me off like the little whore you are.”

Harry tried to leave, to look away, but he couldn’t. Once again, he was a prisoner here, watching as this other self made a high, needy noise and pressed his face greedily into the space between Voldemort’s thighs.

Harry’s stomach turned at the awful slurping noises. Voldemort’s fingers scratched at Not-Harry’s scalp as he worked.

“I’m going to fuck you, someday,” he hissed. “I’m going to work open that little hole of yours and claim you. I might even do it in front of my Death Eaters, so they all know whose whore you are.”

Not-Harry moaned around his mouthful.

“But not yet,” Voldemort said.

He rolled his hips for emphasis and Not-Harry choked. Even at this distance, Harry could see his eyes watering. But the look on his face was utter bliss, and that, more than anything, was what made Harry sick all over again.

Harry watched in frozen horror as Voldemort’s fingers clenched in Not-Harry’s hair and yanked his head back.

Stripes of come hit Not-Harry’s face, and he whined pathetically, trying to catch them in his mouth.

Harry couldn’t look away. And again, his body betrayed him, because the sight of his doppelganger licking come from his lips caused his dick to twitch and his balls to tighten.

Revulsion fought with arousal, as Harry watched, helpless, while Voldemort pulled Not-Harry up by his hair and kissed him roughly.

This was almost worse than watching himself (or a version of himself) suck Voldemort’s cock. He felt he was intruding on something horrifically intimate, as Voldemort licked his way into Not-Harry’s mouth. Not-Harry moaned, his eyelids fluttering shut in complete surrender.

The scene faded out, leaving nothing but the afterimage of the silhouettes of Voldemort and Not-Harry sharing a passionate kiss, as darkness engulfed Harry’s senses.


	2. Reflection, unwanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yeah so this is updating again! 
> 
> hopefully it won't be another six months until the next!!
> 
> this chapter combines the end of goblet of fire and the beginning of order of the phoenix. there are a very few lines taken from the first chapter of ootp (mostly dialogue), but i want you all to know that this is NOT going to just be a rehash of the whole book. there will be time skips because ~~i'm an impatient ho~~ want to get on with the plot. 
> 
> many thanks to cy and red for their wonderful betaing ♥♥♥

 

Harry awoke well before dawn. His body ached physically and his cock throbbed for attention, but he refused to bring himself off after  _ that. _ His scar tingled. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it pulsed with sensitivity. Even his hair brushing against it seemed too much. 

Revulsion mixed with dread and formed a hard lump in the pit of Harry’s stomach. For a few minutes, he thought he might be sick again. But the nausea passed, thankfully. 

He sat up, ignoring both his aching cock and the twinge in his scar. Carefully, he opened the bed curtains, and climbed out of the bed—hunched over, just in case. 

The Invisibility Cloak was right where he’d left it: folded haphazardly at the bottom of his trunk. He swept it over his shoulders and felt as though a weight had been lifted from him as the soft material settled around him. Then he grabbed his wand from beside his pillow and pocketed it. 

He was going to take a page out of Hermione’s book and visit the library. Surely there would be a few books on dreams. Nightmares. Mental connections to Dark Lords. Doppelgangers. Whatever. He thought about Professor Trelawney and the dream journal he was supposed to be keeping. There was absolutely no way these particular dreams would make it into  _ that. _

He padded down the staircase into the common room on silent feet and crept through the portrait hole. The Fat Lady snorted and mumbled something about kneazles, but didn’t wake. 

There was a certain peacefulness to the castle at night. All the corridors were silent and still, and nary a ghost stirred. He only had to watch out for Mrs. Norris. 

The Library was easy to get into, and the Restricted Section even more so. There were a few books that looked promising, so he gathered them and settled down on the cold floor. He adjusted the Cloak to make sure every bit of himself was covered, propped his lit wand against his knee, blinked his heavy eyelids, and set to reading. 

 

* * *

 

He stood in a circular room with many doors. Blue lights flickered and danced at the edges of his vision. Whenever he took a step, the doors would move, spinning by so fast that Harry couldn’t keep them straight. 

Finally, the doors stilled, and he was able to reach one. His fingers clutched tight around his wand, he stepped through it. 

The room beyond looked empty at first glance, but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could see something standing upon a platform in the center. He took a cautious step further. A thin beam of light lanced down from the fathomless ceiling above—as if triggered by his first footfall—and glinted upon something shiny and tall standing on the dais. His footsteps echoed strangely on the shiny black stone. It was oppressively quiet, every sound muffled and devoured by the darkness surrounding him. 

His wand was lit, but it did very little to dispel the dark. The object was further away than he’d thought, or perhaps it was larger than it seemed. 

After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the dais. What stood upon it was very familiar. 

The Mirror of Erised loomed over Harry. He wasn’t standing in front of it properly, and, with the certainty that can only come when you know a bone-deep truth about something, he knew he didn’t want to see what it showed. 

But, like many things, he had no choice. His feet carried him forward even as his mind rebelled. 

He climbed onto the dais in a panic, his body no longer obeying his commands, and stood in front of it. 

With a rising panic, he tried to turn his head, close his eyes, anything to avoid looking. 

But he could not.

The Mirror showed Harry as he was, reflected him and the dark room behind him. 

He let out a breath of relief. 

But then, in the Mirror, a shadow detached from the darkness and moved swiftly towards him. 

Harry’s heart pounded as he watched, a warning shout frozen in his throat. 

The shadow stretched and grew until it was tall and vaguely person-shaped. His reflection didn’t seem to realize the danger. The shadow rose up behind him and reached out to grasp his shoulder. 

The hand that landed upon reflection-Harry’s shoulder was pale, but definitely human—not scaled and clawed like Voldemort’s, Harry noted with no small amount of relief. 

The hand crept down reflection-Harry’s chest, and another hand curled posessively around his waist. The shadow behind him stepped forward into the dim light. 

It was Tom Riddle. 

Not the sixteen-year-old version that came out of the diary in Harry’s second year, but an older Tom Riddle. Taller and paler, with cheekbones honed by adulthood, and obsidian-black eyes that flashed red. His arms wrapped tight and possessive around reflection-Harry. 

Harry’s blood went cold. He stood, helpless and trembling as his reflection melted into Tom Riddle’s embrace, tipping his head back and exposing his throat. Riddle’s hand slid up, slowly, sensuously, to wrap around reflection-Harry’s neck. 

Then Riddle’s cold eyes, impossibly, met Harry’s gaze through the Mirror, and he smiled darkly as he made a show of dragging his thumb across reflection-Harry’s adam’s apple. 

Harry watched in frozen horror as Riddle, with the swiftness of a snake, turned reflection-Harry around until they were facing each other. And, with one last mocking look at Harry on the other side of the Mirror, Riddle brought his mouth down to meet reflection-Harry’s parted lips. 

Revulsion and terror coiled in Harry’s gut as he watched them. Riddle’s hands tenderly cradled the back of reflection-Harry’s neck, and he tilted his head back to deepen the kiss. Harry’s reflection had his mouth open, panting and wanton as Riddle pulled back just enough to trail his lips along his jaw. 

There were no sounds, for which Harry was grateful, but his reflection had his eyes closed in ecstasy, and was clutching the darkness that was Riddle’s robes as if that were the only thing keeping him upright as Riddle mouthed at his throat. 

Harry’s own lips tingled in a phantom feeling. He’d never kissed anyone before, and watching this, despite the horror of it, also caused a traitorous ache of  _ want _ to course through his body. 

Riddle pulled his reflection closer, and thrust a thigh between his legs. Elegant fingers deftly pushed aside the school robes and unbuttoned the shirt beneath. Reflection-Harry was moaning soundlessly. 

Harry’s own face went hot as Riddle’s hand trailed down, down to palm the obvious bulge at the front of reflection-Harry’s trousers. Harry’s cock twitched and hardened in sympathetic response. 

Reflection-Harry shamelessly ground against Riddle’s hand, desperately seeking friction, and Harry’s hips rolled of their own accord. 

This...this was almost worse than watching a version of himself with Voldemort. 

The Mirror of Erised showed the heart’s deepest, most desperate desire. 

“This isn’t real,” Harry told the Mirror. “This can’t be real.” 

Riddle looked up once again, directly at Harry. “Oh, it’s most definitely real,  _ Harry _ ,” he purred. 

It was almost as if his voice were right by Harry’s ear, and he whipped around, bringing his wand up in panic. There was nothing behind him. 

He turned back to the Mirror.   

“No, it can’t be,” Harry said, his voice shaking. “I see my family when I look in the Mirror.”

“Your heart’s desire can shift, you know,” Riddle said, casually working his hand down reflection-Harry’s trousers. 

Riddle shifted reflection-Harry back around, so he was facing front. He went without complaint, as pliant as a doll. Riddle was once more behind him, with one hand up under an unbuttoned shirt, probably thumbing at a nipple, while the other made short work of the trouser button and fly. He pulled reflection-Harry’s cock out and stroked him until the head was shiny with precome. 

Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s while he worked his reflection to completion. 

His reflection’s head lolled back against Riddle’s shoulder, chin tipped up, eyes closed, a complete picture of perfect submission. It made Harry sick to see himself like this, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

His own traitorous cock twitched in his trousers, and he refused to acknowledge it. 

Riddle’s hand gave a final, deft twist, and reflection-Harry cried out soundlessly as come spurted across Riddle’s fingers. 

It was strange, watching his orgasm from the outside. Strange and horridly erotic. 

Reflection-Harry collapsed bonelessly against Riddle’s chest, panting. Riddle brought his come-coated hand up and reflection-Harry lapped the come from Riddle’s fingers with little kitten-licks, his eyes closed in evident enjoyment. 

“Look, Harry,” Riddle said, still staring directly at Harry and not the boy he held in his arms, the boy who was currently sucking on Riddle’s fingers as if he wished they were something else. “This is what you truly desire.”

“No it isn’t!” Harry’s vehement denial was swallowed up by the oppressive room. 

“Yes, it is,” Riddle insisted, his voice low and velvety. “You want someone to _ take _ you. To  _ have _ you. Someone to whom you can give yourself completely.” 

“No!” 

“ _ You want to be owned, Harry Potter,” _ Riddle hissed. He’d slipped into Parseltongue, and the sibilants of the language slithered down Harry’s spine like honey and lightning. 

“Fuck off!” 

“ _ I’d rather fuck you, _ ” Riddle whispered, the words falling into the space between them like a condemnation. 

Harry bit out a curse and flung it at the Mirror. It shattered into a million glittering pieces.

He turned and fled, running faster than he’d ever done, as if his life depended on it. Riddle’s mocking laughter chased him throughout the dark room. 

“You can run but you can’t escape the truth, Harry Potter.” 

Still running, his trainers pounding against the floor—which sounded now like it was wet. The room went colder and damper, and Harry thought he could see his breath mist out in front of him. 

“You will be mine, Harry Potter.” 

Panting, breathless, splashing through first puddles, then an ankle-deep flood of water. 

“Harry Potter…” 

The water was now knee-deep and rising. 

“...Potter…” 

Harry tripped on something unseen and fell with a splash into cold, black water. 

“Potter.” 

 

* * *

 

Harry awoke with a gasp, cold and dripping wet on a hard stone floor. He was still in the restricted section, and his Invisibility Cloak was half off. Snape stood over him, sneering in a most unpleasant way. A bucket hovered in the air just above Harry’s head. A drop of water fell from the upended bucket to land on the lens of his glasses. Madam Pince peered over Snape’s shoulder, her expression pinched and frowning. 

“Get up, or you’ll miss the train, Potter,” Snape snarled at him. 

Harry scrambled up, gathering his wand and Cloak and leaving the book—still only open to page three—behind. 

“Pity the term has ended, or I would have enjoyed taking one hundred points from Gryffindor,” Snape called after Harry’s retreating back. 

Harry skidded to a halt just outside the Gryffindor common room and nearly collided with Hermione. 

“Harry! Thank goodness,” she said, clutching him tight around the shoulders. “Ron already brought your trunk down but the carriages will be leaving soon!” 

She pulled him by the arm and he had no choice but to follow after. “Where were you? Ron said your bed was empty this morning.”

“Er, the library?” 

Hermione stopped and spun around to give him an uncomfortably calculating look. “Why the library?”

“Well…”

“I mean, that’s the first place  _ I _ would go, but that’s not like you, Harry.” Her brow creased in concern. Harry hated to see that look on his friend’s face. 

“I—” Harry started.

“There you are!” Ron shouted from the bottom of the staircase, relief evident in his voice. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, mate!” 

“Well I wouldn’t have gone far…” 

“Hermione thought You-Know-Who might’ve kidnapped you again,” Ron said.    
“She was in a right state.”  

“No,  _ you _ thought that,” Hermione sniffed, tugging Harry along by his wrist. “ _ I _ thought he’d gone off somewhere to brood.” 

Ron made a face as they passed by him. “Brood? Like a chicken?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry had to bite back a grin. It was the first time he’d felt like smiling since the third task. 

The carriages stood in a long queue in front of the castle, like they always did at the beginning and end of the year. But they were not horseless this time. 

Harry stood very still, looking at the...creatures...that were harnessed to the carriages. 

They were like horses, but not. Nearly-skeletal, with completely black coats and moon-white eyes. Large bat wings sprouted from their withers. 

“What…?” Harry said, gesturing to the creatures. 

“What, what?” Ron said. “C’mon we need to go.” 

“Those are…” Harry started. “What are those things?” 

“The carriages that’ll take us to Hogsmeade. Come on, what’s got into you?”

Harry looked mutely at Hermione.

She was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. “Are you feeling alright, Harry?” 

Harry glanced from Hermione, to Ron, to the creatures pulling the carriages and back again. 

“Yeah,” Harry lied. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” He made a helpless gesture with his hand. 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed solemnly. 

Harry followed his friends into the not-so-horseless carriage, and tried very hard to not think of anything for a while. 

 

* * *

 

Summer with the Dursleys was never fun, but this year it was even worse than usual. Harry was on constant alert for anything strange around Privet Drive. He’d taken to stealing the newspaper early in the morning before Uncle Vernon could get to it, scanning it desperately for signs of Voldemort or his followers causing trouble in the Muggle world. 

Currently, he was hunkered down in the hydrangeas beneath the open living room window, listening to the news.

There hadn’t been anything that seemed like “strange disappearances” or “mass murders” yet, but Harry felt it was only a matter of time. 

At the end of his third year, Wormtail had got away and rejoined Voldemort.

And now at the end of his fourth year, Barty Crouch Jr had done the same. 

Even worse, was that Harry wasn’t sleeping well at all. Every time he’d catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror (and he’d spent the first few weeks flinching away from all mirrors), he’d see how haggard he looked. The dark circles under his eyes were a permanent feature, and his skin was pale and waxy. 

Even Dudley had noticed, commenting in his own way one day. “What’s wrong with you?” he’d sneered. “Are you dying or something?” 

Harry didn’t bother responding, because he wasn’t sure if he was or not. He’d force himself to stay awake as long as he possibly could, extending himself beyond all endurance, and then would collapse into bed, praying he wouldn’t dream. 

Most nights, he didn’t. 

But the nights that he did…

Harry shook himself, unwilling to dwell on it during the daylight hours. He was almost grateful for the tasks Aunt Petunia set him, things that could take his mind off of...everything. 

The little jingle to indicate the news was over floated down through the open window, and Harry carefully disentangled himself from the hydrangeas and snuck away. 

The streets were dusty and the gardens yellowed from drought. Harry slipped into the relative cool of a shadowed alleyway, letting his feet take him where they would. 

_ “I expect we’ll be seeing you soon, Harry,” _ Hermione had said in her last letter to him. 

“When?” Harry mumbled, kicking at a small stone on the road. 

_ “Keep your head down and stay out of trouble,” _ Sirius had told him in his last letter. 

“That’s the exact opposite of what you’d do,” Harry muttered, feeling his frustration mounting again.  

He found himself in the abandoned play park that Dudley and his gang often haunted just as the hot day slid into a sultry dusk. Harry, feeling a bit reckless, was almost disappointed that they weren’t there. His fingers itched to grasp his wand...to fling curses...to break things...to  _ hurt something _ .

He scrubbed his hands over his face and up through his hair—no doubt making it even more unruly than before—and sat heavily onto the only swing that Dudley and his gang hadn’t managed to break yet.   

It had fallen full-dark as Harry sat on the swing, trying valiantly not to think of anything. Night meant sleep, eventually, no matter how he tried to fight it. He’d just shut his eyes for a moment...it wouldn’t be true sleep, not here, not outside. 

_ “Kill the spare.”  _

_ “Avada Kedavra.”  _

_ Cedric’s lifeless body falling to the ground. _

_ The sound of manic laughter.  _

_ “Bow to death, Harry.”  _

_ Professor Moody’s craggy visage melting away to reveal a gaunt, pale man with straw-colored hair, and eyes that glittered with mad devotion as he spoke lovingly, longingly of Voldemort.  _

_ Laughter again, not a high, cold voice, but a warm, velvety tenor that made unwelcome heat rush to his face as he ran. The last sink in the girl’s bathroom on the first floor slid with the sound of grinding stone and then Harry was falling, falling into a dark tunnel...  _

Harry’s eyes flew open and his head throbbed—the back of his head this time, not the scar for once—and he blinked stupidly up at the night sky. He’d fallen backwards off the swing. 

Something else made him roll over onto his front and reach reflexively for his wand—the sound of many voices jeering and chattering. For one wild moment, Harry thought a gang of Death Eaters were here in Little Whinging. 

_ Good, _ Harry thought, his fingers wrapped tightly around his wand.  _ Come and get me. Just try it _ . 

But while the voices were familiar, they weren’t from the wizarding world. 

Harry stayed stock-still as Dudley and his gang turned the corner. The Dursleys thought that any time Dudley chose to walk through the door was “right on time” while any time after that meant Harry was late. As he didn’t fancy sleeping in the shed, he decided it was time to get back to number four, Privet Drive. Preferably a few minutes before Dudley got there. 

Harry crept along while still keeping a safe distance from Dudley’s gang, until they’d all peeled away, headed for their respective homes. Dudley turned into the alleyway that connected Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk and Harry followed. 

The recklessness from earlier returned and the urge to taunt his cousin, to fight, anything to alleviate some of his ever-building frustration was very strong. Which was probably why Harry decided to call out to Dudley instead of trying to sneak back to the house first. 

“Hey Ickle Duddykins!” Harry called, feeling very reckless indeed.

Dudley whipped around, his large, ham-like fists came up in a boxer’s position. Even in the dim light of the alleyway, Harry saw his cousin go very pale when he caught sight of the wand in his hand. It gave him a surge of vindictive glee to see Dudley so terrified. 

“Y-you’re not supposed to have that t- _ thing _ !” Dudley stuttered. “I’ll tell Dad!”

“Going to run to Daddy, eh, Dudders? All over a piece of wood?” 

Dudley straightened his back and brought his fists up, grinning triumphantly as if his little brain had just worked something out. “You can’t even use it! You’ll get expelled from your freak school!” 

_ Curse him. _

Harry paused, blinking. Where had that thought come from? 

“You wouldn’t be nothing without your thing!” Dudley snarled, advancing on him. “And you don’t want to get expelled, so I know you won’t use it.” 

_ He’s hurt you before.  _

Harry’s scar prickled. Not in a painful way, but more like his awareness of it intensified. 

“How d’you know they haven’t changed the rules?” Harry said, twirling his wand in his fingers like he’d seen...

_ It’s time for you to hurt him the way he’s hurt you. _

Harry went very still. Dudley was still talking but the words washed over him, meaningless and unheard. Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. He was just tired. That’s all it was. 

“—Not this brave at night, are you?” Dudley was saying. 

“Dud, it is night. That’s what they call it when it gets all dark like this,” Harry retorted automatically. 

Dudley grinned in his mean, piggy way. “I mean in your bedroom at night.” 

A wave of unease rippled through Harry’s body. 

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. 

“I hear you at night, _ moaning _ —” and here Dudley’s voice went high and effeminate “—‘Oh Tom, no, no! Please!’” 

It was like being doused in ice-cold water. 

“Who’s Tom?” Dudley sneered. “Your boyfriend?” 

All the rage and frustration and fear and horror Harry had been feeling since the beginning of the summer rushed in like a rising tide. Faster than the blink of an eye, he had Dudley backed up against the fence of the alleyway, his wand thrust up underneath Dudley’s many chins, the tip biting deep into the soft flesh. 

“You’re lying,” Harry snarled. “I don’t...That’s not...You’re _ lying _ !” 

Dudley let out a squeak of terror, and Harry felt a rush of power coursing through him. Above them, the stars snuffed out one by one

_ Curse him, boy. _

His scar seemed to vibrate with that strange new awareness. Dudley’s small eyes were wide, the whites showing all around. The hot summer night chilled and their breath puffed out in misty clouds. 

_ You know the spell.  _

Harry’s vision narrowed down to his cousin’s pale face. In the distance, someone was screaming. 

_ Say it.  _

_ “Cruc—” _

NO.

Harry flung himself away from Dudley, his heart racing behind his ribs. He’d almost…almost...

But then he noticed—really noticed—what was happening around them. The sweltering night had plunged into an unnatural, biting cold, and darkness had fallen so thoroughly it was as if he’d been struck blind. 

Dementors. 

It wasn’t possible. How could they be here, in Little Whinging? Harry tried to steady his breathing...strain his ears to listen...he’d hear them before he saw them... 

“Wh-What did you d-do?” Dudley stammered. 

“I didn’t do anything. Shut up, I’m trying to listen.” 

“I’m telling Da—” 

“Shut  _ up _ , Dudley,” Harry hissed. “Stay behind me.” 

“I can’t see you! I can’t see anything! I’m blind!” 

“No you’re not, no you’re not, just keep your mouth shut.” 

Harry reached towards Dudley and grabbed a fistful of shirt. 

There was something in the dark at the end of the alleyway, Harry could feel its presence, an aberration in the mundane fabric of Little Whinging. Over the sounds of Harry and Dudley’s panicked breathing was the wheezing death-rattle of a dementor. 

_ “Expecto Patronum,” _ Harry whispered, the cold stealing the breath from his lungs. 

Only a thin wisp of silvery light emitted from the end of his wand, and he felt a bone-crushing despair. He was barely aware of Dudley shaking behind him. 

_ A woman—his mother—screaming.  _

_ A flash of green light.  _

_ “Bow to death, Harry.” _

No. 

Not now. 

Not like this. 

_ “Expecto Patronum!” _ Harry shouted, stronger this time.

A great silver stag burst from the end of his wand and ran the dementor through with its antlers. 

It gave a horrific screech and dissolved into tatters of darkness. The stag wheeled around, prancing back towards Harry, bringing the warmth of a normal summer night with it. The stars, moon, and streetlamps all flared back into existence. The silvery glow of Prongs faded out once it reached them, its job done.  

Dudley gave a great shuddering squeak and collapsed on the spot. Harry, who was still clutching at his shirt, was dragged down, too.

Harry was just heaving himself back up when he heard footsteps pounding towards them from behind. He whipped around, wand at the ready…

It was Mrs Figg, their batty old neighbor. 

Harry hurried to stow his wand away. 

“Don’t put that away, idiot boy!” she shrieked. “What if there are more of them around? Oh, I am going to  _ kill _ Mundungus Fletcher!” 

 

* * *

 

Harry collapsed into his bed, exhausted beyond all endurance. There had been a nonstop flood of owls that evening once he and Dudley got back, and a nonstop flood of Uncle Vernon’s anger. 

He’d been expelled, told to stay at his Aunt and Uncle’s house, then not-expelled pending a hearing at the Ministry, told again to stay at his Aunt and Uncle’s house, and finally, a howler arrived, directed at Aunt Petunia. All of it was punctuated by the Dursleys shouting. 

Harry didn’t bother undressing or pulling the sheet over himself.

For once, and despite everything that had happened tonight—had been happening in the past month—his dreams were utterly normal. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
